


No Room Left for Doubt

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [212]
Category: DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Bat Family, Christmas, Fluff, M/M, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 07:55:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17137943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: That he invites Clark at all is a surprise; that Clark shows up bearing gifts and balancing several pies, somehow, is not.





	No Room Left for Doubt

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: the idea of a Bat Family Christmas.

That he invites Clark at all is a surprise; that Clark shows up bearing gifts and balancing several pies, somehow, is not.

“Hi,” he says when Bruce meets him in the hall, divested of gifts by the kids and the pies by a very chuffed Alfred. “Merry Christmas.”

There’s a shyness to him, a sort of sweetness, that even out in the open, in sunlight instead of shadow, Bruce finds damned hard to resist. So there’s a kiss.

“You look nice.” Clark nuzzles his cheek. “Mmmm, smell nice, too.”

“Kent.” The word comes out more breathless than he’d like.

“What?” A blink of blue eyes, a thoroughly innocent grin. “You do. That’s just plain fact. I’m only telling it like it is.”

Bruce kisses him again because it’s easier than arguing and Clark holds him close, sighs when he slips a hand inside of Clark’s jacket and scratches at his back. And Clark is easy, Clark is caramel, because his mouth melts at the touch of Bruce’s tongue and he groans just a little, just enough for Bruce to remember that they’re not behind the solid lock of his bedroom door, or even in the depths of the cave: they’re out here in the open, in the heart of Bruce’s house, with prying eyes only an arm’s length away. 

“Behave yourself,” he says in Clark’s ear, as much to himself as to Clark. “You can do that, can’t you?”

Clark’s expression is gorgeous, trapped between arousal and exasperation and a shaded face of affection. “Huh. You greet all your guests like this, Bruce?”

Bruce grins and lets him go. “Only the ones I don’t like.”

In the library, there’s a fire in the grate and a tree a mile high. Dick is knee deep in the eggnog and Tim’s singing along to Bing Crosby and Damian’s hanging upside down from the book ladder, twirling batarangs and swaying in time to the music, his face the same scarlet as his sweater. All in all, a rare kind of peace.

“Mr. Kent!” Tim calls when they push through the doors. “We thought you got lost.”

“No, we didn’t,” Damian says, pitching his voice over Bing. “We thought Bruce took you upstairs to--”

“Damian!” Dick barks.

The kid scowls at him, upside down cross-eyed. “What? You’re the one who said it.”

Now Bruce’s cheeks are red and he kind of wants to sink through the floor even though Clark is smiling at the whole scene, a big beam that refuses to dim as the bickering kicks up in pitch.

“See?” Clark says, _sotto voce_. “This is why I always wanted siblings.”

“Hmph. This is why I’m glad I’m an only child.”

“Hmm, maybe. But you’re a heck of a dad.” A squeeze of his fingers, a shout. “Hey! Fellas, is that eggnog? I love that stuff. Think I could have a cup?”

The boys freeze in mid-tussel, Tim caught between Damian’s fists and Dick’s snarl. “Um,” Tim says. “Of course you can. Sure. You can have a whole glass. Dick’s the only one that likes it.”

“Yeah, because it’s gross,” Damian declares. He flips out of Tim’s grip and onto his feet. “Eggs and milky stuff? Yuck.”

“Hmm,” Clark says. “Have I ever told you about the first time I tried eggnog? Well, the first time that I ever tried to make it, actually?”

It’s so obvious a turn, an attempt to redirect, that Bruce rolls his eyes; Clark’s got a lot to learn about kids.

Except Damian doesn’t turn away with a sneer like he would’ve if Bruce had tried something that corny. Instead, he tilts his head and squints. “Were you making it as a weapon? I can see how that might be effective.”

“Ah, no.”

“Was it a thing in your family?” Dick asks. “A tradition, I mean?”

Clark laughs, a sound that lights up the room. “No. Definitely not.”

“Did you have a ton of eggs you needed to get rid of?” Tim settles on the rug in front of the fire, his legs folded neatly beneath. “You grew up on a farm, right?”

“I did,” Clark says, taking a seat on the rose-colored settee next to Dick. “And we did have a lot of chickens, but no, that wasn’t why, either.”

Damian slips his batarangs into his belt--yes, he’s wearing his utility belt with his dress pants and Christmas sweater, so be it--and crosses his arms, leans his hip against the nearest wingback. “So, why then?”

Clark settles back. “Well,” he says, “it started with a visit from some friends. Some folks who’d become friends, that is. At the time, I’d never met them before until they showed up at our front door.”

Ten minutes and one Legion of Super-Heroes later, the boys are leaning towards him, following his every work and laughing at every aw shucks joke. Damian’s even sitting in a chair rather than on it. It’s some kind of weird Christmas miracle, one that’s still holding when Alfred comes to the door and calls them to lunch.

“So they really don’t have chickens in the 31st century?” Damian asks, scooting along at Clark’s side.

“Apparently not.”

“Huh.” Bruce can see the gears in the kid’s head turning. “Interesting.”

“You realize,” Bruce says as Damian zips ahead and starts yammering at Tim, “that he’s going to obsess about that for a week.”

Clark laughs. “Only a week? Darn it. I was aiming for two, at least.”

At the table, Dick says grace and Alfred passes plates, watching eagle-eyed to make sure there’s plenty.

“Master Damian,” he says, “let’s take as many yams as we do marshmallows, yes? And Master Dick, the gravy boat is just there, on your right. And yes, Master Tim, the brussels sprout casserole is vegan, as you requested; I omitted the fish oil this time.”

Bruce chuckles, nudges Clark in the shoulder. “He’s more a mother hen than I’ll ever be.”

“Master Bruce,” Alfred calls, “there are more rolls down this end. Would you like some?”

Clark squeezes his knee under the table and laughs. “You were saying, Master Bruce?”

“Oh, see if you get an extra roll now, Mr. Kent.”

“Is that a threat, Mr. Wayne?”

“You better believe it is, Supes.”

There’s a burst of snickers from across the table. “Oh, man,” Tim says. “You guys are adorable.”

“Blech,” Damian says through a mouthful of potatoes. “They’re even grosser than you and Barbara, Dick.”

Dick gives up a big, mournful sigh. “One day you’ll be in love, brat, and you won’t think it’s so gross.” His hand goes to his phone, half-buried under his salad plate. “But maybe I should try her again, though. She’s probably at her dad’s now, anyway. I should--”

“After lunch,” Bruce says. “You can call her then.”

“After lunch is presents!”

“You’ve waited this long, D,” Tim says. “Ten more minutes won’t hurt.”

“But it won’t be ten minutes! They’ll talk for  _hours_!”

“Master Damian, no knives at the table.”

“No phones either, but Dick has his!”

“We could sneak out,” Bruce says in Clark’s ear. “I honestly don’t think that they’d notice.”

Clark’s mouth turns up. “Sneak out? Why, Mr. Wayne. Why on earth would we do that?”

“So I could take you upstairs. And you could unwrap your present.”

“My present, huh?” Two fingers on the inside of his thigh, a slow, insolent stroke. “You mean it isn’t under the tree?”

“It can be. Later. If you have a thing for pine needles.”

“I have a thing for you.” Those two fingers slide higher. “But I’m pretty sure that you know that. Hence you trying to lure me away.”

“Me?” Bruce has to swallow, has to fight the urge to tip his hips up. “Lure you? Never.”

A smile, a full-on shot of blue, amused eyes. “Good. Because I want the whole Wayne family Christmas experience before I get anywhere near your cock.”

Bruce chokes. “Before you--?”

“Presents!” Damian yells, his voice like a razor-edged gong. “It’s time to open presents, guys! Alfred says!”

“I hate you,” Bruce murmurs as the gang gets up and turns away from the table in an Alfred-led melee. “Sometimes, I really, really hate you, Kent.”

Clark leans over and drags their mouths together, pets the swell in Bruce’s trousers. “You love me,” he says. “That’s what makes this hard.”

“No, pretty sure that’s you doing that.”

Clark laughs. “Come on. Let’s go see what Santa’s brought.”

Tim insists they take turns opening gifts and it makes Damian crazy. Which Bruce figures is sort of the point.

“Fine!” Damian shouts when it’s clear he’s been overruled. “But I get to go first.”

Soon enough, there’s paper everywhere, ribbons and tissue paper caught in the boys’ hair and snagged in the arms of the tree. Clark appoints himself Santa/referee. 

“Ok,” he says, diving into the pile. “Remind me, guys--who’s next?”

Alfred gets a new _sous vide_ machine, the one he’s been waxing about for a month, and reaches out to hug each of the boys in turn.

“Dick picked it out,” Damian says, but he takes the hug anyway, his fierce little face disappearing for a moment against Alfred’s bony shoulder.

“Damian tried to break it,” Dick says with a laugh, squeezing Alfred tight. “But I double-taped the box.”

“I’m glad you like it,” Tim says, a big smile and a bigger embrace.

“Of course I do,” Alfred says, his gray eyes going wet. “Thank you, boys. Thank you.”

Dick gets a new laptop and Tim a leather-bound set of Holmes collections and Damian a set of Choose Your Own Adventure books and a new throwing knife set.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea, Bruce?” Dick says, draping himself over the back of the couch. “I mean, no offense, but the kid’s got enough blades, don’t you think?”

“Yes, but this come with a caveat. Don’t they, D?”

Damian’s frowning at a piece of paper. “This says I can only use them with Ms. Lance. What’s that mean?”

“It means," Bruce says, "that Dinah’s going to teach you how to throw them like she does. In a balanced and more practiced way.”

That gets him a look like could melt glass. “Ugh. Why? I already know how to throw.”

“Because adding different techniques to your repertoire makes you harder to fight. When you can mix things up, diversify your approach, you can throw your opponents off balance faster. Gives you a big advantage.”

Damian blinks. “Huh. Really?”

“Really. But she won’t go easy on you. I’ve asked her not to.”

A wicked grin kicks over the kid’s face. “ _Good_.”

Bruce laughs. “Yeah, I thought you’d like that.”

“Does this mean Ms. Lance will be coming here?” Tim asks. “To the house? Like, um, a lot?”

“Most likely, yes.”

A different kind of smile blooms on Tim’s face, dreamy and pleased. “Oh, wow. Wow. That’s--that sounds great.”

“Huh,” Damian says. He stares at Tim, suspicious. “She’s coming to train me, not you. You can’t butt in to my lessons, can he Bruce?”

Bruce gets a look at Clark’s face which is a gigantic mistake; it takes all he has not to laugh. “No, he can’t, D.”

Damian smacks Tim on the arm, doesn’t at all dislodge that big, dreamy grin. “There,” the kid says haughty. “See? Get your own present, Drake.”

“Oh,” Dick says with a snort, “I think he just has.”

The last box in the stack, when all is said and opened and done, is for Bruce from Clark. It’s small. Doesn’t weigh anything. The boys all crowd around the back of the couch and even Alfred tips forward, peering eagerly around his tea. Only Clark, still seated at Bruce’s feet, doesn’t watch.

He tears at the paper carefully, working his way from end to end, and then unwraps it with a turn of his wrist. It’s a smooth black box with a lid that flips up; there’s something shiny inside.

“Is that supposed to be a bat?”

Bruce hears a whump behind his head. “Shut up, D,” Dick says. “Of course it is.”

It’s heavier than it looks, delicate, and the metal isn’t one that Bruce knows. It’s warm and strong, this charm, cut indeed into the sign of a bat.

“It’s Kryptonian metal,” Clark says, his cheek pressed now to Bruce’s knee. “I’m not sure what the name of it is, exactly, but it’s what the ship that brought me here was made of. The one my parents built. This is, uh--I cut this from that.”

A ripple goes through the room.

“You made this?” Bruce says. He traces the tiny points of the wings, the sharp rise of the ears.

“Yeah. That’s why it’s a little off. I couldn’t get the proportions quite right.”

There’s something in Bruce’s throat, a catch, a sweet little scratch. He swallows around it, makes himself speak. “Clark, it’s beautiful.”

Those bright eyes find his. “Really? You like it?”

“Ugh,” Bruce says, and then he’s leaning down, pitching forward, kissing Superman in front of his family, the open windows, the world. “I love it.”

“I thought you could wear it under your suit, if you wanted. There’s a chain in there, too.”

Bruce squeezes the back of Clark’s neck, gentle and fierce. “Yes. I will. I’d love to. I love you.”

Clark makes a soft sound, sweet and unbearably hot. “Funny. I love you, too.”

They kiss again and grin and when they part, there’s one last second of silence, one last beat of something special in the air.

“Ok,” Damian says, definitive, “enough Christmas. Now can I play with my knives?”

“No,” Alfred says, patting his eyes with a handkerchief. “Not until at the very least we’ve picked up this mess. Master Damian, go fetch a trashbag or two."

Later, when the house is quiet and the fire’s dampened, Clark draws the charm from the box and fastens the chain around Bruce’s bare neck, traces the place where the metal hangs heavy and solid at the edge of his heart.

“You look--” Clark says, his eyes hooded, his fingers dragging down Bruce’s ribs. “Oh, Maker, Bruce, you look like--”

Bruce reaches for him, pulls them together, skin to skin. “Like what?”

Clark groans in his ear. “You look like _mine_.”

He pushes in too soon, before Bruce is really ready, but that’s what Bruce wants right then; wants to feel how much Clark needs him, wants to feel his own body bend and open and stretch.

Normally they talk to each other, poke and laugh and occasionally curse, but on this night, there aren’t any words needed, nothing except flesh upon flesh. 

Clark bites his neck and he pulls Clark’s hair. He claws at Clark’s ass and Clark fucks him in this rough, needy way that makes Bruce feel like he’s splintering, like the only thing holding him in one piece is Clark’s body and Clark’s mouth and Clark’s deep, inexplicable love.

He comes twice like that, at the mercy of Clark’s ferocity and the heady smell of his own spunk, the feel of it sealing their bodies together, fused by the heat of their skin, and it’s only when he whimpers that Clark lets go, lets himself go, rises up on the heels of his hands so they can stare at each other as Clark’s hips shift from piston to desperate and he comes in a rush, fills Bruce up relentless until there’s no room left and it spills down the hot sting of Bruce’s thighs.

“I almost made you a ring,” Clark pants while his hips are still jerking. “But this is better. This is so much better. Looking down and seeing it there while we fuck.”

Bruce smooths the strands from Clark’s face, the dark waves dampened with sweat. He feels like he’s floating, as if his body’s made from a cloud. “You like that, huh?”

A groan, another full-body shudder. “ _Yes_. Maker, yes. You have no idea.”

“Well,” Bruce says softly. He raises his head and licks at Clark’s lips. “I don’t know. I think you’ve just given me some.”

Somewhere in the long dark, he crawls out of bed and comes back with a small, wrapped box. Sets it at the center of Clark’s chest.

“What’s this?”

Bruce worms back under the covers. “What’s it look like?”

“But it’s not Christmas anymore. It’s the 26th.”

“You’re that much of a Christmas purist. Really?”

Clark laughs and sits up a little, tugs at the ribbon. “No, not really. I used to beg Ma to let me open presents on Christmas Eve. No dice. I had to wait until 8 am Christmas morning, after the chores were done. Ugh. It was awful. And I wasn’t allowed to use my powers to rush.”

“Tsk tsk,” Bruce says. His heart’s pounding in his chest; he knows Clark can hear it. “Poor baby.”

It’s hard watching Clark open it; harder still seeing him lift the lid from the box and stare at what’s inside.

“A key,” Clark says. “Hmm. Something tells me it's not for the Batcave.”

“It’s for the front door. For, ah”--he clears his throat, grateful all at once for the dark--“I want you to feel at home here, Kal-El. Like you can come and go as you please.”

Clark is very still. Still and quiet. Neither of which are familiar Clark states.

“I know you can’t, obviously, leave Metropolis and come here. It doesn’t--that wouldn’t work, I know that, but I thought, when you are here, it’s ok if people know that you are. You’re part of the family, Clark; there’s no question about it. And I don’t see any reason to hide it.” He presses a kiss to Clark’s shoulder and leans his face in to hide. “That’s all.”

Clark takes a deep, deep breath and turns his head. “Oh, baby,” he murmurs. “Come here.”

He clutches the key in one hand and Bruce’s face with the other and kisses him until they’re both gasping; pulls Bruce on top of him and kisses him more.

“I love you,” Clark says.

Bruce’s smile is a mile wide. “You do, huh?”

“Hmmm.” Clark’s fingers find the bat, push it gently into Bruce’s skin. “You’re still not sure about that?”

“I mean, I’m pretty sure. Fairly convinced.” Bruce shifts his hips, shivers when their cocks brush. “But you know how it is. There’s always that slim bit of room left for doubt.”

“Are you goading me?” Clark’s hand opens and finds the curve of Bruce’s ass, lets him feel the catch of the key's teeth. “Is this you goading me, Mr. Wayne?”

“Maybe. Mmmm, is it working?”

“I don’t know yet.” A kiss on his chin, another on the edge of his mouth. “Keep going and let’s find out.”

*****

Christmas passes for another year, then. Alfred and the boys wrestle down the tree. The holiday china Bruce’s mother bought a lifetime ago goes back in the cabinet, clean and carefully put away. Batman goes on fighting crime and so does Superman, each in his own city. But there are, in the new year, more and more occasions when Clark makes use of that key; when Bruce comes home from a board meeting or a swing through the city and finds Clark in the kitchen helping Damian with his homework, or in the library with a pot of tea and a big, absorbing book, or in Bruce’s bedroom waiting to drag him into the shower, to rub sweet-smelling soap into his skin and kiss his bruises, one by one, his fingers never far from the little bat that hangs from Bruce’s neck.

“I love you,” Bruce says, at the dinner table, in the practice room, in the warm confines of their bed.

“Funny,” Clark will will murmur, tugging him in for a kiss wherever, whenever, “I love you, too.”


End file.
